


Walking In Memphis

by jenajasper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Plays Guitar, Dean alone, Dean without Sam, Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Incest, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Probably the saddest thing I ever wrote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:06:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenajasper/pseuds/jenajasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wondered what his brother would say. For all his promotion of classic rock, he found that his emotions were  better expressed with a guitar, in a smoke filled room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking In Memphis

He exited the building, passing through the dimly lit hallway to the service entrance and out into the midst of the blending of night and day. There was still a chill in the air and he closed one of the buttons of his suit jacket. Like a uniform, he rolled his eyes at the thought. But, this was the way to dress in this kind of place, with this kind of crowd. He slipped his tie into his pocket.  
And it still amazed him how it could be so cold and then so unbearably hot just a few hours later. 

He barely noticed as the metal door slammed shut. Sudden noises didn’t startle him; he no longer cared who or what might be behind him. And the heaviness of the door was an expected necessity. 

He preferred to work these hours; he was at his best at night. He smiled at that as well. It was the reason he was out at this time of day and not already asleep in his own bed. 

There was a small room upstairs where he would occasionally spend the night before he got popular and started making money. Now, that small room was used for other things, with other people. 

Used was the best word for it. It was only a place for him to be reminded that he was still alive, allowing him to remember and imagine. He needed that sometimes. It started when the songs he sang came from the words he wrote.

He grew tired of singing other people’s feelings. And although he didn’t believe he could do it, he began to tell his own story. He often explained his popularity with the idea that he didn’t make people sad, he made them grateful that they weren’t him. 

His music wasn’t always sad, although it seemed that way. No, he didn’t feel sad; he didn’t feel much of anything. But he wrote this music and he was human and humans should have feelings.Then maybe this was all he had, whatever this was. 

He sang of sorrow and loneliness. After all, wasn’t this the home of the blues? But, he also sang about a love that he once had. It was glorious, unending and limitless. Where there was nothing asked that was too big or too small to keep it alive. And he was happy, then. 

He had a partner, a soulmate, people said. He believed that but, it wasn’t right. That bothered him for a long time. 

Then suddenly, on what started out as just another day, something changed. Maybe it was one too many close calls, tending to one too many bruises, stitching up one too many cuts. But, the the touch of fingers became too hot, the grip of a hand on a shoulder, too intimate, and a hug of comfort, too much. 

They kept that a secret between themselves. It was too dangerous for anyone else to know. But, at the end of the day, when they were alone…….

Maybe that’s why he prefers the night, to work in these small, out of the way places. It reminds him of that life, always in the shadows.

He checks the latches on his guitar case. He wonders what his brother would say about that. For all the classic rock he promoted, he was really more partial to rhythm and blues, in his privacy. That’s why he ended up in this town. 

He knew the rock and roll was the outside, like the bravado, a protective shell. Inside, where he told himself the truth, there was tenderness and heart. 

And he loved the bond he had with this guitar. He could hold it in his arms and caress it with his fingers. And he could make it sing and laugh and cry. 

He ran his hand along the three small raised letters engraved on the case. S.A.M., he had it done that way, in initials, so if anyone were to ask, he could simply say it was second hand. 

If anyone wanted to know the real story, they would only have to listen to him sing. 

Dean slipped his fingers through the handle of the case, hoisted the guitar onto his back and walked into the daylight.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the beautiful work of pompeii77.deviantArt.com Most specifically a piece called "ROAD"  
> My eternal gratitude.


End file.
